I Would Drive on to the End with You
by gbheart
Summary: When Arthur gets lost in England, who can he call other than Eames? Shame Arthur happens to be hopelessly in love with the man but won't admit it. What will it take for Arthur to lose control and take what he's always wanted? Eames/Arthur eventually.
1. Part 1: Lost

**I Would Drive on to the End with You**

Pairing: Arthur/Eames.

Warnings: Slash, smut and a rather terrible attempt at making sure Arthur comes across as American (I'm British – that is my excuse and I am sticking to it).

Disclaimer: Inception does not belong to me, and I am not making any profit from this.

Rating: M for language and scenes of a sexual nature.

Summary: When Arthur gets lost in England, who can he call other than Eames? Shame Arthur happens to be hopelessly in love with the man but won't admit it. What will it take for Arthur to lose control and take what he's always wanted?

A/N: This has been the first fanfiction I've managed to successfully complete for going on three years now. A lack of motivation, plus that pesky thing known as 'life', has got in the way, but Inception has managed to cure me of my writer's block like no other fandom. This was going to be a small one-shot – you know, something to sink my teeth into – but 21,000 words later and I realise that plan failed. It's all technically one, long chapter, but I've split it up into parts so that it's not one huge block of text.

**Part 1: Lost**

You're sitting in a train carriage. It's completely packed with people and yet you feel completely and utterly alone – lost in your own bubble of solitude. No one seems to glance your way and, for a split second, you question if anyone notices that you even exist. You wonder whether or not anyone would turn and look at you if you screamed at the top of your voice. They're acting almost like projections, but you've checked your totem enough to know this is real. You stare back at your laptop before realising that, despite being on the train for over an hour, you have done no work at all; you just can't seem to focus. Everything and everyone distracts you. The businesswoman sitting across from you distracted you for a good five minutes whilst she shouted at someone down the phone, accusing them of being a 'worthless human being'. You feel a little sorry for the person who's on the receiving end of the woman's wrath, but you cling onto every word she says, curious to know how it will end. As it turns out, it ends with her hanging up after one final screech down the phone, muttering obscenities to herself long after the incident. Once again, you question why you're even here. You're here on a job – that much you could work out for yourself – but the job itself wasn't what interested you, oh no. It was the _location_ – England, to be precise. You came here in some vain hope that it'll make you feel closer to man you've been obsessed with since the day you met him years ago. He would probably think you were pathetic for coming all this way because he used to live _somewhere_ on this rather small island.

Staring out the window, you see nothing but fields, trees and sheep for miles and miles. Every so often, the train goes through a town and city, but it always ends up back in the countryside. Your destination is Stoke-on-Trent, a city in the middle of England. You'd started the journey in London – his hometown – and you've been sitting here bored ever since. As always, your thoughts go back to him and the last conversation you had with him, which was just a week ago, shortly after the Inception job.

_You're too busy watching Cobb head out of the airport, with the biggest smile plastered on his face, to notice __**him**__ come up to you._

"_Hello, darling," he whispers straight into your ear. _

_You jump a little in fright before regaining control and turning to face him. "Hello, Eames." You keep your tone neutral, but your heart is racing. You take in his scent: cigarettes, cheap aftershave and a masculine smell that is so beautifully...Eames. You find the smell intoxicating and as addictive as any of the hard drugs – you always walk away wanting that little bit more. _

"_Care to go for a drink, Arthur?" he offers. _

_Your heart is screaming at you to say yes, but your head is saying no. You both know how the night will end – he'll have got what he wanted then and not need you anymore. Eames always has one-night stands. Always. Relationships are the last thing on his mind, which you'd seen firsthand as he blew off both men and women after adding another notch on his bedpost. For some stupid reason, Eames always insinuates that he wants you – probably to add to his collection. The fear of him wanting you once and once only was what stopped you every time. You'd rather never experience his body than lose him completely. _

_You realise that you never answered him._

"_That's not protocol, Mr Eames, and you know that," you answer. _

"_I'm not hearing no," he teases. _

"_Fine then...no." _

_Eames looks temporarily put out, but as usual doesn't give up; "C'mon, darling, we need to go out and celebrate! We did an amazing thing there – you particularly were fantastic!" _

_You desperately fight the urge to blush at his words. He's clearly lying – it was your fault that Saito almost got lost in Limbo. It was all your fault. The fact he's lying is another bullet point on the list of reasons why you shouldn't get a drink with Eames. _

"_I did what I had to do – that's all," you explain, shrugging. "If anything, it's my fault we almost didn't complete it." You're not sure what you decided to add that last part, _

_Eames steps even closer to you, right in your personal space, before muttering, "Not everyone would be able to come up with a kick in freefall, you know." _

"_Saito almost got lost in Limbo because of me." You don't want to hear anymore of his lies. You don't want him to make it sound like you aren't a failure when it's so obvious that you are. He's about to say something, but you stop him; "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I fucked up, end of story."_

"_Whatever you say, darling – I think you did a brilliant job." He has that adorable smile on his face. It's the smile that makes your knees weak and could persuade you to do almost anything._

"_Either way, I still want you to come and celebrate with me," he says, that beautiful smile still on his face._

"_It's not a good idea, Eames," you admit. "I just...I've got to go."_

"_Wait!" he begs, and you feel his hand on your shoulder. The sheer heat coming from the small amount of contact is ridiculous – no one's hands should be that warm. You can't ignore that tone of voice, so you turn around against your better judgement. You see him scribbling something on a piece of paper. _

"_In case you change your mind, here's my number." His tone of voice is playful, but you can see the small amount of hope in his eyes. He holds out the piece of paper, which you grudgingly accept. You know that you'll be spending the next god-knows-how-long trying to weigh up the pros and cons of ringing the number..._

You were right, of course. The number is still in your suit pocket, but you've taken it out to look at it so many times that you're surprised the ink hasn't worn away. The writing is messy and all over the place, but this doesn't surprise you. That's just who Eames is. When he's not working, he always looks like he couldn't be bothered to get dressed properly, his hotel rooms were always a tip, and he never stays in one place for very long. You love him for all these qualities and more. He is your complete opposite in almost every way. He is all about losing control and using life as an excuse to experience everything, whereas you value having control at all times above anything else. You always say: if you've got control of a situation, you'll be okay. Your sheer unwillingness to let go and lose just a little bit of control is probably why you're alone right now. You've always failed at relationships and always will, unless you learn to _just let go_. That is one of the things about Eames that attracts you, isn't it? The fact that he is everything you're not. You can count the amount of sexual partners you've had on one hand, whereas it is impossible to comprehend just how many people he has slept with. He is everything you want to be. He is everything you just, plain _want_. You want him so badly that your heart physically aches. You have to remind yourself _again_ that it would never work; he is too different to you. You'd end up driving each other mad. A small part of you still has hope, though – just a tiny, minute part of your soul. You wonder if Eames will ever grow out of his playboy attitude. You doubt it. Even if he does, he could have anyone he wanted – why would he choose you? Neuroticism isn't attractive.

"The train will be shortly arriving at Stoke-on-Trent," the sound of the bored train driver breaks you from your thoughts. "Don't forget your luggage, and please mind the gap."

You check that you've not left anything behind not once, not twice, but three times before you join the bustle of people that are getting off the train also. The station is tiny compared to the one in London – it looks as though there are only two or three platforms at most. The theme is red and white, and the building itself is rather nice. Shame about the ill-suited glass roof. You have no idea where the exit is, so you carry on following the crowd. They lead you down some stairs, then across a tiled corridor and finally up so more stairs. Once you've finally reached the entrance, you get out your phone and you don't dial the number you want to dial, but the number you need to dial. After a few short rings, your client picks up. You say you're at the entrance of the train station, and he tells you to look out for a guy holding up a piece of paper with your name on it. He then hangs up. The conversation lasts all of about thirty seconds. Following his orders, you look around the entrance for said person. It doesn't take you long, and you can't believe you didn't notice them before. Looking more confident than you feel, you head over there.

"Ah, ya must be Arthur," they say immediately. The person in question is a forty-something man with a large moustache and an even larger smile on his face.

"That I am." You say it pleasantly enough, but with a professional edge.

"I trust ya trip was nice, sir?"

"Oh yes, your transport system is incredibly effective." Wow, that sounds even more stupid out loud.

He merely chuckles at you, before saying, "it's not half bad, 'suppose. Anyway, sir, 'ere are ya keys."

You don't understand. Why do you need keys? The plan is that you get driven by the client – or maybe the man in front of you – to where you'll be staying. It's a simple plan, so why are keys involved?

"What keys?" you question.

"The keys to the car Mr Jones has provided for ya, of course!" The explanation is easy enough to understand, but you're still confused. The man obviously picks up on this because he explains further;

"A car and a sat nav are waiting for ya at Meigh street multi-storey car park, just opposite Hanley Bus Station – level two, space thirty-eight. The sat nav will take ya to Mr Jones, sir."

This is most definitely not a part of the plan.

"I assumed Mr Jones would be driving me; it was a part of the deal." Your irritation shines through in your voice. They don't expect you to drive around somewhere you've never been before, surely?

"Mr Jones is running late but has assured me that you'll be fine on ya own."

Apparently, they do. This has to be some sick joke. Not only do they drive on the opposite side of the road to what you're used to, but you're at the mercy of an electronic box that has been in the media countless times for being useless. This will not go well. You're tempted to admit to the guy in front of you that you honestly don't think you'll manage this alone, but your pride and professionalism stop you. You accept the keys with a thank you before politely asking how to get to Hanley. He explains that you get a bus on the same side of the road as the train station and that you ask for a 'single to Hanley'. He hands you some 'change for the bus' with a smile. He says that he regrets not taking you there himself, but he has to run some more errands for your client. You lie and say that it's perfectly fine – _you'll_ be perfectly fine. You say it so convincingly, you almost believe it yourself. Almost.

With one last smile, he walks away from you, and you're now completely on your own. You take a moment or two to mentally prepare yourself before sighing and heading out onto the street, your suitcase in one hand and laptop case in the other. The most common English stereotype seems to have some validity because almost as soon as you step out, it starts to rain. Not too heavy, but just enough to completely ruin your hair. You take this as the tone for the rest of the trip and head up the street to the bus stop, feeling a little bit more irritated than you already were two minutes ago. Luck is on your side, for a change, as a bus that you assume is yours stops just next to you. You feel a little nervous as you step onto the creaking, packed vehicle.

"Does this bus go to Hanley?" you ask, feeling more than a little bit stupid.

The bus driver grunts in response.

You take that as a yes and ask for a single, handing over the correct change as he barks out a number. You grab the ticket and sit next to an old woman who smells of burnt rubber and lavender.

The journey itself takes no more than ten minutes. You step off the bus at what you think is Hanley bus station. If you're honest with yourself, it's a bit of a dump. It's all concrete, dampness and no beauty. It was as if the person who designed it just didn't care; you could design something better and more effective in your sleep. You walk past the various couples and groups of kids as you head down the bus station. The air is cold and slightly windy, and what isn't helping is that your clothes are slowly but surely becoming saturated by the rain, which is coming down heavier now. Even when you're at the end of the bus station, you don't see a 'multi-storey car park'. You start to worry now. The rain isn't going to stop anytime soon and now you can't find this stupid parking garage. You long for this day to end as you walk up to the only person standing alone. They turn out to be a teenage girl. You ask her if she knows where it is.

After a few seconds of silence, she answers, "It's just past the...theatre that's just over there. You can't miss it." Her voice is quiet and reserved – she's obviously shy.

You give her a genuine smile and thank her warmly before setting off again. As she said, it's just next the theatre. You find the public entrance and walk inside. It isn't much warmer in here, but at least you're out of the rain. You contemplate taking the stairs but decide against it, choosing to take the elevator instead – you have a suitcase, after all. As soon as the elevator door opens, the smells of stale urine and alcohol attack your nostrils. The fact that this only just registers on your radar of disgusting smells shows that you've spent far too much time in places that are much, much worse. You press the button that has worn away '2' on it. A minor feeling of claustrophobia sets in as the metal doors close and the elevator lurches upwards. You used to be crippled by your fear of small spaces, when you were younger. You couldn't even have your bedroom door closed without having a panic attack. You've improved since then, but every so often you'll be in a situation like this one, and you'll start to worry again. You can feel your heart clenching tightly in your chest. You breathe in and out. You remind yourself you're in control. You are in control. You sigh in pure relief when the elevator comes to a stop. Stepping out, you just stand there for a few seconds, feeling your heartbeat slowly return to normal. You hate yourself for having such a pathetic weakness. It doesn't even make any logical sense. It just sometimes feels as though the walls are closing in on you, and you can't handle that. With yet another sigh, you step into the garage and search for your car. You find it easily enough – there aren't many other cars on the floor – and with a press of the button on the keys, the car opens. It's an Audi of some sort. You know very little about cars. As long as it works, you don't really care. You open the trunk of the car and place your suitcase and laptop bag inside, but you don't close it just yet. You open up your suitcase and fish out a coat hanger before taking off your jacket and wrapping it gently around the piece of plastic. Your suit jacket may be wet, but you don't want it getting creased and it will start to smell if you throw it into a pile. Next, you open up the backseat door nearest to you and delicately place the top of the coat hanger onto the hook above the window. You make a mental note to avoid driving too fast, just in case you knock the suit off the hanger; a creased suit would just be the final nail in the coffin lid of this terrible day. When you feel satisfied that your jacket is as secure as it can be, you close the door and then close the trunk of the car. It takes you a second to realise that the driver's seat is on the wrong side. This does not help your confidence in your ability to drive in England. You get in anyway, ignoring the feeling that this feels incredibly _wrong_. The major plus is that it's an automatic, meaning you can now concentrate on just the road and not what gear you should be in. This is also the _only_ plus side. Nothing is in the place where it should be. You start to question if you're going to meet your end in a bloody car accident. You hope not. Not because you feel your life is particularly important, but because you know your last seconds of life would be filled with regret – regret that you'd never told Eames the truth. You take the phone number out of your pocket once more, staring at the list of numbers that you know off by heart now. Once again, you decide against it and tentatively fold it up and place it back in your pocket like it's a priceless heirloom.

You spend the next five minutes getting a feel for the car, making sure you know where everything is. That's all the preparation you can do, really. You turn the sat nav that you find in the glove box on and put it to the only destination available, which is approximately 30 miles away from where you are right now. 30 miles has never felt further away. You start the engine and put it into reverse. When the car is out of the parking space and you haven't hit anything, you feel a little better. You follow the signs out of the rather confusing building, and it's all going well, until you reach the exit. Firstly, you have to stop yourself driving out the 'wrong' way. Secondly, when you're finally on the right side, a barrier goes down in front of you and you're not sure what to do. There's a machine next to you asking for a ticket. You search the car and find a piece of card that you pray is correct. When you place the ticket into the slot, the barrier goes up and you feel a momentary relief before you realise that you're now going to have to actually drive with other cars. Worrying that the barrier will go down again at any second, you drive through it before stopping again. The sat nav tells you to turn right, so you do. There are a few other cars on the road and, at first, it unnerves you that you're driving on the side of the road where traffic would be coming _towards_ you, back in America. You slowly get the hang of it, though. Your first crisis is when you reach the most confusing traffic lights you have ever seen. The sat nav is telling you to go straight on, but you panic and go into the wrong lane. Your heart is racing and you will for the light to never turn green but, of course, it does. You now have to move forward because the person behind you is honking his horn at you. Your nerves frazzled, you drive forward and weave yourself into the correct lane. You manage to get through it without a scratch, but you definitely feel even less confident about driving. You carry on anyway, hoping for no more traffic lights.

It's an hour later and it's starting to go dark. You're still nowhere near your destination, and the sat nav is taking you down some bendy country roads. Every so often, a car will drive past you or overtake you, but you're pretty much the only car around most of the time. The sat nav keeps telling you to turn left or right, but there is no road where it's telling you to turn. You keep going straight on instead, and the destination time keeps going up and up. The rain is harder than ever now. Even with the window wipers on, it's hard for you to see sometimes. This just causes you more and more stress. You honestly don't think you'll ever get there. You begin to worry about the amount of gasoline – petrol, you correct yourself – there is in the car. If you run out, you really will be well and truly fucked. Your hands are shaking now, and your mind is buzzing with a million different, yet equally incoherent, thoughts. You feel like you can't breathe. You have to keep checking that there aren't someone's hands on your throat because it feels as though there are. You accept that you are in no fit state to drive, so you pull up on the side of the road, whilst making sure you leave your hazard lights on, and turn off the engine. All you can hear is the sound of the rain pounding against the outside of the car. You rub your temples – a headache is now starting to form. You feel useless and so very out of control. You grab your loaded die and roll it on the dashboard, sadly confirming that this is reality. There are tears rolling down your face now, which you don't even notice until a droplet lands on your hand. The floodgates suddenly open and you're sobbing for the first time in years. Crying has never been your thing – you were taught it shows weakness – and although you are filled with shame for crying, the tears just won't stop. Your headache is getting worse and the tears don't stop for a second. Do you have any control left at all? Finally, after what feels like hours, you run out of tears. Your throat is sore, and your eyes are red and puffed up. You take your phone out and, for once, you don't dial the number you need to dial, but the number you want to dial. Somehow, you manage to press the correct numbers first time, even with your hands shaking.

He answers after only a few rings. "Hello?"

You feel temporarily breathless. His voice always has that effect on you.

"E-Eames?" you manage out. You sound even more pathetic than you thought you would.

"Arthur, darling, is that you? Are you alright?" He sounds worried.

"I'm lost," you explain, before inwardly cringing. If he didn't think you were pathetic before, he certainly does now.

"Lost where, darling?" There was no undertone of teasing in his voice. In fact, you don't think you've ever heard him sound more serious than he does in that one, three-word sentence.

"I-in England." You hold back the sob that is desperate to escape. You refuse to cry down the phone, especially not to him.

There are a few moments of silence, although it could have just been a few seconds – time is a blur for you, right now.

"In England, did you say? The United Kingdom, England?" He definitely sounds worried now.

"Yeah, I'm...I'm in the middle of England, near Stoke-on-Trent? I'm here on a job."

"Fucking hell, love – no wonder you're lost. Those roads can be bloody lethal!" he exclaims and you can hear the familiar tapping of a keyboard on his end. "Do you know whereabouts you are exactly?"

You think long and hard for the last sign you passed. You think it may have said something like 'Alton' or 'Ashton'. Maybe.

"I think I passed a sign saying turn left for...Alton? It was around five minutes ago."

You hear more tapping of the keyboard. "Can you see any signs at all near you? Any landmarks, maybe? I think I know the general area of where you are, but something a little more specific might help." This is Eames in professional mode; there is something incredibly attractive about him when he's being serious. Shaking the inappropriate thoughts away, you look around. It is now completely dark outside, which certainly isn't helping your predicament.

"Eames, I think I'm going to drive around a little bit more, to see if I can see a sign. I will ring you back." You make sure you sound perfectly calm this time. The chances are that you won't ring back – you've taken up enough of his time – but he doesn't have to know that.

"Only if you promise to ring me back, darling. I know you and I know you won't, so I'll ring you back in ten minutes if you haven't rung me by then." He puts the phone down.

You curse at him for obviously knowing you better than you realise. You don't want him to think you didn't want to ring him back, so you start the engine straightaway and carry on driving. The sheer amount of concentration it takes to look for a sign in the rain makes your head throb, but you carry on anyway.

Mercifully, you reach a crossroads junction a few minutes later. The choices on the signs are Oakamoor and Freehay. The sat nav is telling you to turn right, but you aren't convinced. Once again, you pull up at the side of the road and, against your best wishes, you call Eames back.

"Ah, nice to see you're still alive, darling," he teases gently.

"Eames, I'm at a crossroads – left is Freehay and right is Oakamoor. Does that help you?"

"That's perfect. I'm going to find you a B&B to stay in, alright?"

After a few minutes of silence, other than the tapping of the keyboard, he begins to give you directions. He is patient, calm and helpful, which in turn helps you to feel the most calm you've been all day.

"And the little B&B should be on your left," he concludes. "Does it say that there are vacancies?"

You notice the sign saying that there are, and you tell him as such.

"Well, there you go then!"

You have never felt more grateful to see a building in your life.

"Thank you, Eames." You truly mean that and you hope he realises this.

"Don't worry about it. Get some rest, and we'll sort out how to get you to your proper destination tomorrow, alright?"

You thank him again and when the conversation is over, you already miss the sound of his voice. He has been a true life-saver, and you plan to think of a way to repay him.

You park the car you would happily never get in again in an available space, before grabbing your suitcase and laptop bag, and running towards the entrance. A kind-looking old woman is at the front desk.

"Do you have a room available?" you ask, politely.

"Ah, you're American, I see. Well, you're in luck, hon, I have a room spare," she answers. "We don't get much business when Alton Towers isn't open."

You nod, although you have no idea what she has just said to you. You give her your name, and she hands over a key. With a thank you, you head up the stairs in search of your room. Unsurprisingly, the room is small, but it has a homely feel to it. The bed is a double with a flowery duvet on top. There is a door on the other side of the room, which you guess is a bathroom. The cleanliness of the room is acceptable, and the vase full of fresh flowers on the window sill is a nice touch. You place your laptop bag on the table and your suitcase under the bed before sitting down. You're exhausted, but stopping your grumbling stomach is your number one priority right now. It's been hours since you last ate, and you're paying the price now. Despite the protests from your body, you stand back up again and head out the door. As soon as you get back to the front desk, you ask if there is anywhere nearby that does food.

"There's a restaurant just next door, sweetheart. The food is pretty decent and the company's nice. I think you'll like it," the old woman answers.  
With a thank you, you're out the door and running towards the restaurant. You normally don't run anywhere out of the dream world – it's hardly professional, is it? – but you honestly don't care right this second; all you care about is staying as dry as you can. The place is about half-full, and you find a table near the door straight away. You're glancing at the menu when an overly cheerful waitress bounces over to you.

"May I take your order?" she asks.

"I'll have a glass of coke, please." You're tempted to have a glass of wine because you most certainly deserve one after the day you've had, but you decide against it. You've still got a job to do, after all.

"Coming right up!" Her squeaky voice makes you cringe, and your headache feel that little bit worse. You think back to your rather disastrous day. Nothing has gone right. The only positive thing to happen was your conversation with Eames, and even then you're worried that he thinks less of you because of it. You can't believe how pathetic you must have sounded to him on the phone. You're so deep in your thoughts, you don't notice that the waitress has returned with your coke.

"Would you like to order some food as well?" she asks.

You order a chicken dish with fries. As your stomach growls, you hope it arrives soon.

It's around forty-five minutes later and you're leaving the restaurant. You feel a lot better now that you've eaten, and the bed inside your room is calling out to you. Before you can go to bed, though, you need to ring your client. He's probably wondering where you are. As soon as you get to your room, you pull your phone out of your pocket and dial his number.

"Arthur, is that you? Where the fuck are you?" Your client barks out as a way of greeting.

You don't appreciate his tone. "I've spent the past few hours driving around, trying to find wherever you live. It is not my fault that the sat nav you chose is subpar, and I have decided to rest for the night in a hotel. I shall speak with you in the morning." Before he has the chance to reply, you put the phone down. You regret sinking to his level, but you're tired and irritable.

The effort it takes you to get undressed and into your pyjama bottoms is twice as much as it should be, but you get there in the end. You give up attempting to put your pyjama top on, and choose to go without. Climbing into bed, you feel the softness of the blanket relax your tired body. You're about to close your eyes, when you hear your phone vibrate. It's a text message. Grabbing at your phone and flicking it open, you read it;

'_Goodnite darling. Sleep well x'_.

You smile to yourself as you close your eyes. You're asleep within minutes.

A/N: There we have it – part number 1! I live in the area where Arthur is stuck and, trust me, those roads are brutal. There are loads of accidents around there. Anyway, I hope Arthur isn't too OOC. My interpretation of him is that, on the outside, he's calm, but there's a lot of inner turmoil going on underneath. Any constructive criticism is much appreciated, and the next part will be up within the next few days.


	2. Part 2: Found

Warnings: Slash, smut and a rather terrible attempt at making sure Arthur comes across as American (I'm British – that is my excuse and I am sticking to it).

Disclaimer: Inception does not belong to me, and I am not making any profit from this.

Rating: M for language and scenes of a sexual nature.

A/N: Sorry about the delay. Every time I've sat down to edit it, something has come up and I've had to put it on hold. My skills at using American words still suck, I'm afraid. You're welcome to point out any errors you see.

Thank you so much to everyone that reviewed/put this story on alert. I was so shocked that I got so many! Thanks again.

**Part 2: Found**

You wake up twelve hours later to the sound of a phone ringing. It's not your own cell phone, but the telephone already in the room. Still half-asleep, you place the phone to your ear;  
"Hello?" Your voice is hoarse and groggy.

"There's a guy here to see you, mate. Should I send him up?" The man sounds incredibly bored.

"Sure, sure," you say, not really paying attention to what he has just said. You put the phone back down and attempt to fall back asleep. It's only when you hear a knock on your door that you comprehend his words. You're most certainly awake now. Adrenaline pumps through your veins as you slowly head towards the door. The only person who knows you're here is Eames, and he's most likely somewhere warm like Mombasa, thousands of miles away. So who could it be? You quickly scout the room for a form of weapon, deciding on the large Bible that was on the table. Clutching it tightly, you unlock the door but don't undo the chain. With the blankest, calmest expression on your face, you open the door the few inches the chain allows. Looking back at you are the most beautiful, blue-grey eyes you've ever seen. You feel as though you can't breathe.

"Going to let me in, darling?" Eames says, smiling.

You can't believe he's here. Your totem is on the bedside table, so you can't even check if you're in a dream.  
"Wait there a second," you reply.

You shut the door, put the book back down and undo the chain, your hands trembling just a little. As you open the door, you're suddenly very aware of the fact that you're half-naked and judging by his eyes trailing over your body, he's noticed your state of undress also. He looks exhausted – like he could fall asleep where he stands.

You step aside to let him through, and he throws his bag that you didn't notice he was carrying onto the nearest chair and collapses onto the bed.

"What...what are you doing here?" you question, moving to sit down on the nearest chair.

He looks up at you with those tired eyes. "I wanted to make sure you're okay, 'course."

You feel a warm affection for the man in front of you. You remember even more just why you fell in love with Eames. He makes you feel like he truly cares – that you're someone worth caring _about._ You want to say how much you appreciate his gesture, but you're not even sure how to put it into words.

You realise you've said nothing and it's already been two minutes since he answered you.

"Where have you come from? You look exhausted, Eames."

His eyes are closed, but he answers anyway; "Don't worry your pretty little head, pet. I was already in London, so it wasn't too far away."

"Still...thank you, Eames." As thank you's go, that was pretty tragic, but you hope he knows you mean it.

His eyes shoot open. "What for?"

"For everything. You were incredibly helpful yesterday, and now you're here and..." You don't even know what to say next, so you stop talking.

Eames has the biggest smile you've ever seen on his face.

"You're very welcome, darling. I don't mean to be rude, but is there any chance I can have a kip for a few hours? I'm bloody exhausted."

"Of course. Go ahead."

"Excellent. Wake me up in two hours, and I'll be right as rain, okay?"

You nod, although you have no intention of waking him up. You watch as Eames crawls underneath the cover and gets himself comfortable. He is asleep almost instantly, judging by his breathing. You find yourself watching him for a few more minutes. He looks so peaceful in his sleep, like there are no worries in the entire world. A jolt of pain surges through your heart; you wish you could wake up every morning to see him like this.

You would always wake up first, of course – Eames didn't seem like much of a morning person. You'd know pretty much to the minute when he was going to wake up, so you'd have a coffee, a newspaper and breakfast waiting for him. He would greet you with a morning kiss, and you'd eat breakfast in bed with each other every day. You would of course argue sometimes, like most normal couples, but it would never be about anything serious and you would have the most fantastic make up sex. You realise with an inward groan that you're even planning a non-existent relationship. It can never be something spontaneous with you – everything has to go according to plan. Still, it would be nice, though...

You shake the thoughts away. It will do you no favour to have hopes like that. You finally turn away, and grab your phone and totem from the bedside table. You are most definitely in reality. With a relieved sigh, you head out of the room and outside to make a phone call to your client. You were considering this last night and now that Eames is here, you agree it's for the best – you're planning on quitting the job.

The conversation goes as well as you expect it to: badly. Your client was screeching down the phone at you for ten minutes. You don't care; your reputation is good enough that you won't be affected too much by this. You offer to return his car, which does nothing but slow his tirade down by a tiny amount. When the phone call is over, you groan as you feel yet another headache coming on. You make a mental note to buy painkillers before heading back up to your room.

Unsurprisingly, Eames is still asleep. You feel mentally exhausted from the day's events already, and you wonder if you should follow Eames' example and sleep for a few hours more. You don't really want to try and sleep on the rather small couch, and there is enough space on the bed for the both of you. You weigh up the pros and cons for sleeping there, thinking of every possible scenario that could happen as a result of it. Eventually, you climb into bed on the opposite side, but you stay as far away from Eames as possible. The gentle snores coming from the older man are the last things you hear as you fall asleep.

You wake up a few hours later to find two arms wrapped around your waist, and Eames' chest pressing gently against your back. You want to stay like this, but the potentially awkward questions that could come from him waking up like this would just be impossible to deal with. Eames doesn't seem to want to give up so your body heat so easily, though. When you try and gently remove his arms from around you, he clings onto you; his strength is working in his favour. You try again, but you appear to be stuck.

"Arthur..." Eames whispers so faintly that you question if you heard it at all. Your whole body stiffens at the sounds of your name. As carefully and slowly as possible, you turn your body around just enough to check his face. Eames' eyes are closed and his breathing is slow – he's obviously still asleep.

"Arthur..." You can't mistake the sound of it this time; Eames is saying your name in his sleep. He's pulling you even closer to him now, until your head is against his chest and you're on your side. He moves one arm so it's covering the top half of your own. You feel him start to rub your bare skin softly.

The fact that it's now pretty much impossible to move without waking him up has your heart racing. You're beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. You take in that wonderful scent in an attempt to distract yourself. There's a hint of sweat amongst the usual smells, but it's not strong enough for it to bother you. The distraction works for all of about ten seconds, and you're back to remembering that you can't move. Miraculously, Eames let's go and you practically jump off the bed. It's typical that you're finally in Eames' arms and you panic. Mentally scolding yourself, you head off to the bathroom to have a shower.

The water feels good against your skin. Showers have always been relaxing to you. After a hard or stressful day, you always come home and have a shower. It's as if your problems get washed away down the plughole. You think about the man currently asleep in your bed and about what you want to get out of the next day or so with him. The list of things you want to happen and the list of things that probably will happen don't crossover enough for your liking.

You realise that there are only two ways you can act. The first one is to carry on acting the way you have been from the moment you met him: cold and indifferent. This certainly won't do anything to change your current relationship with Eames, but it won't result you in getting hurt either – it's a safe, tried and tested method. Then there's a method you've never tried before: actually showing affection and being nice to him. This is new territory for you in every way. Affection has never been your strong point; even receiving affection makes you feel awkward. This is the method with the highest risk. You could walk away with everything or nothing. It could even leave you with something in the middle – sex and then the inevitable ignoring that comes with it. Groaning, you lean against the shower wall. You're overthinking everything, as always. You decide to just go with what feels comfortable at the time. This is the closest you'll ever get to spontaneity. You finally turn the shower off and step out.

You head back into the room wearing just a towel, to find that Eames is awake. His eyes are on you instantly.

"Now that's a sight I wouldn't mind waking up to every morning," he comments, grinning.

You say nothing for a few teasing minutes. You turn your back to him as you decide what clothes to wear for today. Finally, you say. "What sight would that be, Mr Eames?" You're feigning innocence; you both know that you know what he meant.

"The sight of you soaking wet and wearing almost nothing, of course."

You're so glad that you're not facing him; it means he can't see your face turn bright pink.

"Maybe you'll experience the wonderful sight again, one day."

"Pardon, darling? I mustn't have heard you properly because it sounded as though you just flirted with me, and that can't be right!" Eames is laughing now, and you find yourself laughing a little yourself.

You hear the sound of the bed creaking and the next thing you know, Eames is right behind you. You feel his breath on the back of your neck. You desperately hold back a shiver as you feel his lips lingering between your neck and your shoulder. They're just an inch away, maybe less. You shut your eyes and take a deep breath. Half an inch away now. You have goose bumps all over your body. Any second now, his lips will connect with your skin and you know he'll have you then; you'd practically beg for it.

Eames pulls away at the last second and heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. You feel your body go cold at the sudden loss of heat.

"That asshole," you mutter as you quickly get dressed. He was teasing you all along, and you fell for it. You grumble to yourself and attempt to think of a way to get him back. And you _will_ get him back. You decide to get some food – you can't plot the comeuppance of Eames on an empty stomach.

"Eames!" you yell through the door.

"No, darling, you can't join me. Maybe later though!"

"Stop thinking with your crotch for two seconds, and tell me what you want for breakfast!"

It's now 1pm in the afternoon, but you're still on American time and it's a perfectly acceptable time to have breakfast.

"Full English for me, with a cuppa tea, if you don't mind!"

You head downstairs and you're surprised to find a younger man standing at the front desk, rather than the nice old lady from yesterday.

"Can I help you?" You realise it's the guy who told you about Eames on the phone earlier. He sounds just as bored and uninterested.

"I was just wondering if breakfast was still available," you inquire.

"No, and isn't it a bit late for breakfast? Bloody lazy yanks..."

"Jason!" the old woman from yesterday appears from nowhere, and she is looking angry. "How dare you be so rude! I thought I'd raised you better than that." She turns around to face you, and her face softens considerably. "Did you say you want some breakfast, dear? What would you like?"

You order a full English breakfast and a cup of tea for Eames, and just two pieces of toast and a coffee for yourself. She tells you that it'll be bought up to you in the next half an hour before sending 'Jason' into the kitchen. You're about to turn away, when she starts talking again;

"Is that man that came to visit you earlier your boyfriend then, Arthur dear?" She asks out of nowhere.

You certainly weren't expecting _that_ question.

"Oh, no – we're just friends."

"That's a shame. You two would make such a lovely a couple."

"That's not something you'd hear back home; homosexuality isn't exactly greeted with open arms." You hope you don't sound as bitter as you feel about it.

"I must admit, I used to not be so open, but then my daughter, Alice, told me she was gay and I realised that the people I had judged over the years...they were someone's child, and I would hate to think of any of my children being treated like that for who they love."

"I wish more people thought like you did," you comment.

"I think we'll get there in the end, my dear. Don't ever let anyone tell you it's not okay to love."

You walk away from the conversation feeling incredibly emotional.

When you walk back into your room, you find Eames getting dressed. There are tattoos covering his arms and chest that you didn't even know existed. Your eyes trace over them curiously, wondering what story they might tell.

"Like what you see, darling?" Eames winks at you.

Damn, he caught you staring. "I didn't know you had any tattoos," you admit. An idea formulates in your head; a way to get revenge on him. You take cautious step forward.

"I read somewhere that tattoos change the texture of your skin – can I see if that's true?" If you have read that somewhere you don't remember, but it doesn't matter. It's all a part of the plan.

"Go ahead. Have a nice, good feel." His voice sounds seductive, which sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

You start off innocently enough; you just rub the tattoo on the top of his right arm. The skin doesn't feel any different, but you never expected it to.

"No change there. Let's try the chest area."

You make sure you sound distant, almost like a doctor doing a medical exam. He needs to think that this is all perfectly innocent. You place your hand on the Union Jack on his chest – no surprises there at that tattoo choice – and you slowly run your hand down it. His body shivers as you trace over every muscle of the tanned body that is so very different to your own. You stop at the tattoo just above his hips. You finger it gently – so gently you question if he can even feel it. The air is thick and it feels warmer in here than it did a few minutes ago. Your hand goes lower, until it's touching the top of his worn-looking jeans.

"There's something I want," you whisper straight into his ear.

"W-What is that, love?" His voice sounds oddly hoarse.

"I...want...no...I...need..." you tease out every syllable and when he quivers a little, you know you have him. "I...need...to...set the table for breakfast." You pull away and whilst stifling a laugh, head towards the table that has two chairs next to it. Eames mutters obscenities as he puts on a t-shirt, but says nothing to you. You feel his eyes on you as you remove all the items that have built up – mainly Eames' – on the table surface and check it for dust.

There's a knock on the door that you hope is breakfast. Eames opens it and, sure enough, Jason is at the door holding a tray.

"Thanks, mate," Eames says as he takes the tray off him. "There's even a newspaper. Excellent."

Jason leaves without saying a word. Eames carries the tray of food and puts it down with grace that you didn't realise he had.

"Toast, Arthur? How very you, and how very boring," he comments as he sits down.

With a shrug, you sit down on the chair opposite him and pick up your cup of coffee. The hot coffee feels so wonderfully familiar as it trickles down your throat. You start on your toast then, but you're not hungry, so you pull apart and nibble at it.

Eames is reading the paper as he sips his tea. Neither of you are saying anything, but the atmosphere has gone back to being nice and calm. It feels as though you and him have done this dozens of times – like it's routine. You smile at the sheer domesticity of it.

"You know," Eames says casually as he turns the page of his newspaper. "Diane, the old lady downstairs, thinks that you and I should, in fact, be together."

"She might think that, but she knows we're not."

"Oh?" He's stopped looking at the newspaper and is looking straight at you.

"She asked me earlier, and I said we were just friends."

"Ah, well she assumed so when I asked which room you were in earlier," he explains. "It's quite funny, actually. When I said we weren't, she told me that if I was attempting to woo you, then I should at least buy you some flowers. I can't picture you being the flower type."

"I don't mind them. I can't picture _you_ being the type to buy someone flowers."

"I've bought people flowers, I'll have you know!" He's pretending to be offended, but you can see that he's trying not to laugh. "If you want flowers, I shall get you flowers, my dear."

"It'll take more than that to woo me, Mr Eames."

"I can imagine so. What is your sexual preference, Arthur, if you don't mind me asking? Do you bat for the same team?"

"I'm gay." You haven't said those words to anyone in a long time.

"I'm bisexual, myself. Tend to prefer men to women as a general rule, but some women are just...beautiful, if you get me? Anyway, is there a whole other side to you that I don't see? I don't think I've ever heard you even mention a partner..."

You don't like where this conversation is going. It feels all too personal.

"That's because I don't have one," you say simply.

"Surely not?" He sounds genuinely surprised.

"You should know better than anyone that our line of work makes it incredibly difficult to have a personal life."

"What about someone in the same line of work?"

You know he doesn't mean it like a subtle way of letting you know how he feels, but your mind is working over time. You start to wonder if you can make it through the next day or two with him without jumping to stupid conclusions.

"Like who? I don't like to mix my personal life and work life together anyway."

"That's fair enough, darling. Perfectly understandable what with Mal and everything."

You're relieved when the conversation is over.

Eames finishes off his rather large breakfast until the plate looks almost unused. How he can eat so much, you'll never know. He leans back in his chair and sighs contently.

"So, what's the plan for today?" he asks. "Are we still on for trying to find your client's house?"

"No, I forgot to tell you that I quit the job earlier," you realise. "He wasn't happy, but he'll get over it." You wonder if Eames' is going to be annoyed because he came all this way for nothing, but he merely smiles. This man is an enigma.

"What's the plan now then?"

"I was thinking that I'd try and book a plane ticket for LA tomorrow."

"I think I'll join you, pet. I'm sick of England already."

You nod but say nothing. There's nothing _to_ say, really. You pull out your laptop and get to work on finding some last-minute flights.

"What airport should we leave from?" you question. "We can choose Manchester, Birmingham or London."

"Either Manchester or Birmingham," he answers whilst still reading the paper. "The way you guys say Birmingham is just adorable; it's Birm-ing-um, not Birm-ing-ham."

"But that's how it's spelt..." you mutter to yourself. It isn't easy finding spaces for a last-minute flight back to LA. In fact, it takes you over an hour.

At some point, Eames' cell phone goes off. He grabs it and heads to the other side of the room to answer it.

"Why hello there! How did I know you'd end up ringing me at some point? Just couldn't wait, could you?"

You tap away at the keyboard, trying to look to busy, but you're listening to every word of the conversation. Not that it's very interesting. Eames' answers are vague – they mostly consist of purely yes or no answers – and there are no clues as to who the mystery person is.

"I'll let you know as soon as I know, don't you worry...It'll be sometime tomorrow, I'm guessing. Speak to you soon." The conversation is over. You're itching to know what it was about, but you're certainly not about to ask. You carry on typing away as you hear Eames head back to his chair.

"That was a job offer," he answers your silent question.

You want to point out that that didn't sound much like a job offer, but you remain quiet. The silence between you stays as you look at website after website. Finally you get somewhere.

"Eames, I've got us two business class tickets for 5pm tomorrow, from Birmingham airport. We'll land in LA at 9pm local time."

"Sounds simply grand, darling. How much is a ticket? Would you prefer cash or cheque?"

"Neither. I'm paying for both of us." You know he's about to argue, so you stop him before he can. "Don't worry about it, Eames. It's the least I can do, and it's not like I can't afford it."

For once, Eames backs down. "Thanks, darling."

You find yourself smiling a little.

"I know, to pay you back, let me buy you dinner," he offers.

You're not entirely sure how to take that. "Dinner? Why?"

"It's our last night here, so we might as well celebrate, right?"

"Yeah...yeah, alright."

He grins at you and checks the time. "Shall we go in a couple of hours?"

"Sure. I'll get some work done in the mean time."

The time goes fairly quickly. You check some emails, make some calls and work out a schedule for tomorrow, whereas Eames reads the paper and does the crossword. You talk occasionally, but it's the mostly silence. It's a comfortable kind of silence, so you don't really mind.

"Hey, Arthur – what's a seven-letter word that is another term for a loved one?"

"Um...darling?"

Eames laughs. "I knew I'd get you to call me darling eventually."

"...That wasn't on the crossword, was it?" You grumble.

He shakes his head before going back to the actual crossword. You won't admit it to him, but you thought that was quite funny. The comfortable silence returns as you carry on working.

A/N: I hope you liked it. As always, any constructive criticism is much appreciated.


	3. Part 3: The Thrill of the Chase

Warnings: Slash, smut and a rather terrible attempt at making sure Arthur comes across as American (I'm British – that is my excuse and I am sticking to it).

Disclaimer: Inception does not belong to me, and I am not making any profit from this.

Rating: M for language and scenes of a sexual nature.

Beta: TresMaxwell, who took on the painful job of making Arthur sound less British. I pretty much kept to all your changes, if I remember rightly. Thank you!

Thanks also to xxSay for giving me one hell of a lesson on 'How to Speak American', and also for just being a lovely person.

A/N: Right, here's the next part. I think it's the longest one so far. As a warning, there is smut in this chapter, so if that's not your thing then I've put the smut between ***'s, so just skip past it. You won't be missing anything plot-wise, so don't worry about it.

**Part 3: The Thrill of the Chase**

"Are you ready to go now, darling?" Eames gets up and walks over to you as he puts a jacket on.

You shut down your laptop. "Yeah, let's go."

The air is a little cold, and you find yourself shivering; you're glad the restaurant is next to the B&B. The restaurant itself is a little busier than the night before, but not too crowded.

"This place isn't too shabby," Eames comments. "Let's go somewhere quiet, shall we?"

You find a place towards the back where no one else is around. The small area is lit by the large fire in the centre of the wall towards the front of the room and a simple light fixture near the back, giving the room a slight romantic feel.

The waitress from the night before comes over. "Welcome! What drinks would you like?"

"A pint of larger for me if you don't mind, sweetheart." As always, Eames just has to charm someone. The waitress blushes.

"I'll have a glass of red wine," you decide.

The waitress stays, staring at Eames and twiddling her hair. You feel a burst of jealousy.

"That'll be_ all_, thank you."

She gets the hint and finally walks away. You send a glare to the back of her head.

Eames leans forward; "No need to be jealous, darling. She's not my type."

"I'm not jealous." Such an obvious lie. "I just hate it when they linger around when they're not wanted."

"Like I'd choose someone like that over you anyway, love." He laughs, but his tone sounds oddly serious. You're not sure what to say, so you opt to look at the menu instead.

"Any idea what you want?" Eames enquires.

"I might have fish. What about you?"

"I'm thinking about having a nice piece of steak."

That does sound nice. You consider having one yourself. "I might have a steak as well, actually..."

"There's nothing quite like a piece of succulent meat in your mouth, is there?"

It takes only a second to work out the innuendo, and you find yourself choking a little on your drink in surprise. You shoot him a glare, which he returns with a broad grin.

The waitress arrives with your drinks and places them gently on the table.

"Have you decided on what you're having?" she enquires, still practically drooling over Eames.

"Two steaks with chips. You want chips right, Arthur?"

You nod.

"Yeah, with two chips. Can I have a little jug of some Jack Daniels sauce as well? Ta."

"How would you like your steaks done?"

"Well-done for me."

You wrinkle your nose in disgust and ask for yours to be rare.

She writes it down and leans a little closer to Eames, obviously trying to flash him her cleavage. You don't appreciate some annoying teenager trying to flirt with him. Eames moves his hand and places it around yours, squeezing it lightly. You stare at the tanned hand that's covering your own in surprise. The waitress stalks away. He holds your hand long after she's gone before finally pulling away.

"I knew that would get her to leave," he says, smiling.

You can still feel the ghost of his hand against yours. You find yourself glancing from your hand to his, which is current wrapped around his drink.

The conversation turns to casual things while waiting for dinner. A question pops into your head, but it could be too personal. You consider asking it for a good five minutes, before you finally decide to just go with it – he doesn't have to answer.

"Eames, you said earlier that you're sick of England. Why is that?"

"The weather's crap, for a start, and there's this reserved, silently judging culture that I can't stand. Only some of the smaller towns and villages actually bother to get to know their neighbours, can you believe that? I prefer warmer weather and kinder people, thanks." His explanation makes sense, but it doesn't feel like the complete answer.

"You Brits don't seem all that bad," you comment, and you're being truthful. People over here don't appear any more or less miserable than the people back home.

"To tell you the truth, I don't have the fondest memories of this place..." The semi-permanent smile on Eames' face was now gone, and you feel guilty that your question was the cause. You obviously touched a nerve.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have pried like that." Eames looks like he is almost never sad, and it should stay that way.

"Don't worry about it – I'm not upset," he reassures, although you're not entirely convinced. "Besides, I've been thinking about it and 'though I've known you for, what? Five years now? I know almost nothing about you, and I'd like to change that. I want to know what you like and don't like, and what your favourite films are. I suppose what I'm getting at is...I want us to be friends." He looks hopeful but worried at the same time.

You wonder how long he's been planning to ask you this. The idea of being friends with Eames is certainly an interesting one. Life is never boring when he's an acquaintance, never mind a friend. You picture calling each other late at night to chat, and you inwardly smile.

"I like the sound of that, Eames." Your lips turn upwards just a little as that wonderful smile returns to his face.

"That's wonderful to hear, darling," he beams. "There's something I've always been dying to know about you, actually. What were you like as a child?"

You ponder the question for a little while. Most of the memories of your childhood are blurred, which is the way you prefer it. The past has very little impact on you now, but every so often a memory will trickle through your mind and stop you in your tracks.

"I was quiet," you eventually answer. "I mainly just sat there and read. I was awkward too, I think."

"Did you have many friends?"

"Not really. I was never cool enough for the popular kids, but apparently not freakish enough to be picked on. I had one friend throughout elementary school and high school; her name was Sophie."

"No guy mates then? What was your school like?"

"I struggled to relate to other boys in my class, and our school was tiny – five hundred children at most."

"Tell me more about this Sophie then."

You think back to the first time you ever met her. She had a heart-shaped face, wavy brown hair and a look of mischief in her eyes. It turned out that that was the look almost constantly stretched across her face, like she was always planning _something_.

"Sophie was wonderful. She was smart, like me, but also sociable. Sophie could have been friends with anyone she wanted, and yet she chose me. I told her this on numerous occasions, but she never listened.

We were inseparable to the extent that my parents kept asking me if I planned to marry her. Obviously I had no intention to, but she played it up around them to help me." You had honestly never spoken so much about this to anyone, but there was something about the way that Eames looks at you with such interest that makes you want to spill your heart to him. It was a peculiar and oddly uncomfortable realisation.

"Do you two still talk?" He sounds incredibly curious now.

"Not really, no," you say with a hint of a sadness. "Once I went into the military, we lost touch. What about your school?"

Just as he's about to answer, the food arrives. The waitress puts the food down before walking away as quickly as possible. You feel smug at this – she finally got the message. You start on the steak, which cuts as easily as butter. It's nicely pink in the middle, just how you like it. You see Eames eating his own steak, which is completely cooked, and you wrinkle your nose again – that style of cooking the meat butchers it...no pun intended.

"Eames, how can you eat it like that?" You can't stop yourself from asking.

"The idea of it being pink is, well, rather disgusting."

You roll your eyes. "Here, have a try." You cut him a piece off and place it on your fork with the intention of handing over the whole utensil, but Eames opens his mouth and looks at you expectantly. With a sigh and an eye roll, you lean over and feed him the small piece of steak. He chews it slowly, giving nothing away.

Finally, he says "you've converted me, love. No more well-done steaks for me."

"It's nice to see I've been able to refine_ some_ of your tastes," you remark.

"Don't be cruel, darling – we're supposed to be friends." He places his hand on his heart and looks into the distance dramatically, but he's grinning like an idiot.

"Friends tease each other, don't they?"

"Well, you've got me there. Here, I tried your thing now try some of this." He pours a little bit of the Jack Daniels sauce onto your plate.

You have no desire to try it, but it would be unfair if you didn't. You cut a small piece of your steak off and dip it gently into the thick, brown liquid. The sauce coats your tongue and you have to fight back a moan of pure contentment; the taste is subtle and fits the steak beautifully.

Damn the fact that it tastes good.

"It's okay." Major underestimation.

"Say what you want, love, I saw your face and it said it all." That smug look is torture.

You feel your cheeks turn a little pink. "You never did tell me about your school life, you know."

"Ah, yes. This will probably come as no surprise, but I was a little shit at school. I had issues with authority and got into plenty of fights."

This really doesn't surprise you; Eames doesn't seem the type to have ever been a model student.

"So, why did you get into a lot of fights?" You try and avoid making your tone sound like you're conducting an interview, but that's probably how it comes across.

"It was from good intentions, I promise. If I saw someone getting picked on or beaten up, I had to intervene – usually with my fists – even when it was four against one. I didn't want them thinking they had any power."

"That's really nice of you, Eames, and that doesn't surprise me either."

He beams at you. "It's nice to see that you think I have a heart of gold deep down, Arthur."

You've always thought he was a nice person; he's never given you a reason to think otherwise. Even when Eames was being the arrogant idiot he was when you first met him, he would rush to save someone else in a second.

Eames has hardly changed in the five years you've known him, actually. He still has the same flirtatious, over-the-top personality and the same terrible dress sense. He's almost completely the same physically as well – just a line or two that weren't there before. The only real difference between the old Eames and the Eames right in front of you is his eyes. They are the same beautiful colour and shape they'd always been, of course, but the emotions swirling within them seem different somehow – more sincere. When you'd first met, they were always filled with curiosity and mischief, much like Sophie's actually, and knowing Eames he _was_ plotting something, but now everything he said and did just felt more genuine.

"Did you have any friends at school then?" You really are quite curious about his past now.

"I had some mates, but no real friends."

"I'm not entirely sure what the difference is..."

"Let's just say that I could trust them to have my back in a fight, but I couldn't tell them my secrets."

You've had your fair share of people like that in your life – Eames used to be one of them.

"So, were you rebellious the whole time you were there?"

"No, actually. I calmed down and actually listened, once I took up drama. I was naturally good at it, and the teacher actually liked me, for once. She stopped me from getting expelled, actually..."

Your eyes widen. "What the hell did you do to almost get yourself expelled?"

"At sixteen, I went off the rails and did a lot of stuff that I regret. Got myself together in the end, though."

The more he speaks, the more you realise that he is very much like yourself; you both only give out the bare information – never any more than the other person needs to hear to understand something.

"I can't believe how much there is about you that I never knew," you comment. You realise that through all the background checks you ran on him – you did this with everyone, and not just Eames – there is information here that you'd never have found out, no matter how much research was done.

"I'm sure you'll find out some more, and I shall learn more about you, in time, pet."

You are strangely excited at the thought.

Once dinner, and dessert plus two more pints of lager in Eames' case, is finished, he pays for the food as promised.

"May I have a bottle of red wine too, sweet? The one my lovely Arthur had earlier."

"What is the wine for?" you question as he pays for them also.

"I was thinking that we could go back, open a bottle, and get to know each other more. What do you think?" he proposes.

The idea of getting drunk and talking about secrets scares you, if you're completely honest with yourself. It would be all too easy to say or do the wrong thing, particularly with the lowered inhibitions that comes with consuming alcohol. You decide, against almost all of your head, to just go with it and avoid consuming much more – if any – alcohol.

"Alright then."

You're about to start walking out of the restaurant, when you feel something covering your arms. Looking down, you see Eames' ugly jacket on top of your own.

"I saw you shivering earlier," Eames explains before holding the door open for you.

You're touched by his gesture, and you put it on properly with a small 'thank you'. Unsurprisingly, it's too big for you, but it's warm and smells of Eames so you don't care. It's also incredibly useful at keeping away the cold, you find out once you step outside. The short journey back is filled with companionable silence.

When you return, you both head to the love seat situated near the window, right next to the table you sat at for breakfast, and you take off the jacket he gave you.

"I don't suppose you packed some glasses in that case of yours, did you, darling?"

You shake your head.

"I guess we'll just drink from the bottle then. Do you have a bottle opener?"

Thankfully, you do. You get it out of your suitcase and hand it over. Eames uncorks the bottle and hands it over to you, which you tentatively accept.

Your idea of not drinking any alcohol goes out the window, but the questions you ask each other are light. Nothing too serious, just questions like 'what is your favourite colour?' You find out that; Eames' favourite colour is light blue; his favourite food changes all the time and at the moment, it is, in fact, steak; and his first kiss was at eleven with a girl who was thirteen at the time.

Twenty minutes in, and Eames asks about your parents, and the light, conversational atmosphere disappears. Normally, you'd avoid this topic completely, but whether it was the alcohol pumping through your veins or the fact that it's_ Eames_ asking, you don't know – you just talk;

"My parents were incredibly traditional and strict, particularly my father. He was a General in the military, and he ran his house like an army base. I remember him making me, and my mom, clean a whole room again and again because it wasn't up to standard. He hated that I would rather read than fire a gun, so he pushed me into joining all clubs, like the Youngsters' Gun Club and Karate; it was all to make me more physically fit. My mom, like a typical housewife, spent all the time cooking and cleaning, and taught my older sister, Amy, to do the same. My mother was a very subservient woman, and she let my father get away with treating her like shit."

"You say your parents were traditionalists, right? Well, did they ever find out about your sexuality?"

You stare down at your hands, unable to look him in the eye;

"Oh, yes. I never wanted them to know, but we were arguing about something – I can't remember what it was, but I think it was to do with Sophie – and I just snapped. I screamed at them that I was gay and there was nothing they could do about it, and I regretted it as soon as I saw their faces. My mom spoke first. She was crying and telling me to stop lying – that her son couldn't be gay. My father said nothing at first, but then he suddenly started screamed at me, telling me that I was disgusting and he was incredibly disappointed in me – that he'd always been disappointed in me. I was sent to military school the next day, to see if they could train it out of me. I was fifteen."

Eames says nothing for a few awkward minutes. The only sound in the room is your own thumping heartbeat. He then takes you by surprise and wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. His smell, his breath against your cheek and the warmth radiating off his body is what calms your heart down.

"They're bastards, love," Eames whispers. "How dare they say that to their own son..._wankers_."

You force yourself to look up at him, and you see nothing but fondness in his eyes. He never breaks eye contact with you for a second. It's mesmerising to see him look at you like this, and for once you don't feel the need to look away.

"What about your parents then?" You enquire after a few minutes.

"My mum was lovely. She was so beautiful and always had a smile on her face. I really wish you could've met her. Sadly, she died of cancer when I was about nine."  
"I'm sorry to hear that, Eames; I wish I could have met her." Judging by the small smile he gives you, it was the right thing to say.

"When my mum died, it was just me and my dad. His way of grieving was alcoholism, gambling and using me as his own personal punch bag. He spent most of our money on the first two, so I started to pickpocket and steal to feed myself. I stupidly wanted to make him proud as well, but the old bastard died when I was sixteen." There is a bitterness in Eames' voice now.

You know you should comfort him like he did with you, but it never has been your forte, so you choose to just lean in a little closer to him as a rather pathetic way of showing you care. He rests his chin against your head and sighs a little.

Something clicks in your mind; "Is that why you had a relapse of behaviour at sixteen?"

"Yeah. I went to live with my grandma until I was eighteen, and I was horrible to her, but she never did anything but love me. It was only when I was warned by the doctors that stress was hurting her heart that I pulled myself together."

"I'm glad you pulled yourself together," you blurt out, immediately regretting it. You worry that you've crossed some kind of line – said something that'll make him realise how you feel and hate you for it – but all he does is smile again and say "me too".

Eames decides to change the topic to something much less personal.

It's been an hour now and the bottle of wine has become considerably lighter in that time, and not all of that was down to Eames. Somehow, after the conversations about pets and first jobs, the topic of love and relationship pops up.

"Have you ever been in love, Arthur?"

"Just the once. I thought I'd been in love before that, but what I felt for him far surpasses the others." That is the honest answer as well; you just left out the part when you say it's the man sitting in front of you.

"Did it work out the end?"

You want to laugh at the sheer weirdness of this moment, but that would make you look insane.

"No, it didn't. It was unrequited."

"I know how that feels, darling. It's not nice. I've been in love twice, I'd say." You wonder what those people did to win his heart. "I'm going to be honest, Arthur, I'm not entirely sure how you've managed to remain single – you look like people should be queuing up for the chance."

This is exactly where you didn't want the conversation to go. His compliment makes you feel uncomfortable. You want to say that it's because you're waiting for someone – him, to be precise – to open their eyes and want you, but you can't.

"I'm not exactly great at relationships, Eames." At least you manage to actually tell part of the truth.

"And why is that?"

You sigh. "As I'm sure you've worked out yourself, I'm not exactly an open person. I like my personal space and I'm rather...awkward at physical affection."

Eames chuckles.

"What the hell are you laughing at it?"

"Arthur, love, you say that whilst you're in my arms and telling me about yourself."

You shoot him a glare and try to move away, but he doesn't let you. After a half-assed struggle, you give up and go back to leaning against him.

"What about you then? Why aren't you with anyone?" You feel your heart beat just a little faster than usual. His answer to this question could help determine if he'll ever stop being a playboy.

"I'm waiting for the right person to come along, of course. Until then, I'll sleep around from time to time with people that know it's just a one-night thing – no one gets hurt then."

"Has the right person come along then?" You're definitely nervous now – you're surprised your body isn't shaking/  
"Maybe. I'm not sure. It doesn't matter if they're the right person or not if they don't feel the same way though, does it?"

"I guess not, no." His answer is annoyingly vague, and actually answers nothing.

"What do you look for in a man then, darling?"

"A man who is the complete opposite of me."

"That hardly answers the question, you know."

"Well, that's all you're getting."

He pouts and whines, but you don't give in.

You can't believe how comfortable you feel around him now, even when it comes to awkward conversations like this. It feels like you've been having these types of conversations for years, when it's not even been a day yet.

"There's just one more question I need to ask," he whispers. His tone is different now. It almost sounds like he's...nervous? The atmosphere changes again in the room. It feels thicker now – claustrophobic almost.

"What question is that?" you ask. Your mouth feels oddly dry.

"Do you...do you find me attractive, Arthur?"

It would be all too easy to say no – to lie and say you don't think that the man in front of you is absolutely beautiful – but you don't want to lie. The word slips from your tongue so easily, it takes no effort at all.  
"Yes, I do. Do you think I am, Mr Eames?"

"I think you're one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen."

Wow, you weren't expecting that.

"Arthur, what would you do if I kissed you right now?"

You almost choke on the wine you're drinking. This is it. What you say will change your life, and you know it. You know you shouldn't and you know you will regret this tomorrow morning, but you've wanted this for so long. The feel of his lips against yours is something you've dreamt about for five, long years.

"I w-would kiss you back." You've sealed your own fate.

"Excellent." Eames cups your face, stroking your cheeks gently as he leans towards you. It feels like hours, but finally – _finally_ – he presses his lips against your own. Your heart explodes and you kiss him back with desperation.

He straddles your waist, bringing you even closer as his tongue slips into your mouth. A battle for dominance commences. Even though he's more than slightly intoxicated, he gives you the greatest kiss of your life. He kisses with so much passion that it practically burns you. It's just how you knew he would kiss – just like how you dreamt he would time and time again. You moan into the kiss, arching your back. You've never felt so vulnerable, or turned on, in your life. His hardness – hardness for _you_, you remind yourself – is painfully obvious through his jeans. He pulls away from your lips and starts undoing your shirt. He fumbles through the buttons impatiently, before finally pulling it off and throwing it away.

You can feel him attacking your neck now, and you let him.

You feel him kissing all the skin he can get at, and you let him.

You feel him take your nipple into his mouth, and, _oh god_, do you let him.

Taking the matter into your own hands, you grind up against him. He groans and it vibrates through your skin, straight into the very centre of your being. Everything on your body feels as though it's on fire, in the best way possible. You suddenly push forward so that he crashes to the floor, with you on top. If it hurt him, he never mentions it because you're too busy kissing him again. Never removing your mouth from his for more than a second, you pull his t-shirt off. Even after seeing it earlier, you're amazed by his body, and feeling it naked against your own skin feels so wonderful that you forget everything and wonder why you never took him up on his offer years ago.

You re-learn the muscles in his body again, this time with your tongue. He's gasping and grunting as you lick his navel before heading down even further.

"Stop, darling," Eames forces out.

You look up straight into his eyes, which are completely filled with lust.

"As much as I love the idea of you sucking my cock, love, let me do the honours."

_Good god, no one should ever sound that seductive without trying, _you think.

Before you have the chance to argue, he's using his strength to his advantage again, pulling away and standing up. He leans down and picks you up, carrying you over to the bed with ease. With a gentle plop, you're lying on your back. There's a devilish smirk on Eames' face as he slowly pulls your pants down at a teasingly slow rate.

"Hurry up!" you cannot suppress the whine in your voice.

With a smile, he has them off with one tug. You can see your own erection pressing against the fabric of your briefs and, judging by the look on Eames' face, so can he.

"So beautiful," he whispers as he takes your underwear off as well. Eames leans forwards and without any hesitation, takes you straight into his mouth. Oh _god_. The sheer heat coming from his mouth is pure bliss, and the moan that escapes you is involuntary. You fight the urge to shut your eyes; you want to remember this moment forever. When he adds his tongue into the mix, you almost explode then and there. His movements are slow and calculated, but feel so deliciously wonderful. You never knew you could have so much pleasure pulsing through you at once. With every swirl of his tongue or movement of his throat, you feel yourself heading closer to the edge, and you want it so badly that it almost hurts, but you want him to climax with you.

"Eames, wait," you choke out. "I'm close, but I-I want...to come with you in me."

His eyes widen, but with one last gentle lick, he pulls away. He heads towards his suitcase and pulls out a bottle of lubricant and a condom. At your questioning face, he merely laughs and says "Always be prepared, darling."

He's unbuckling his belt as he comes back to the bed. You unconsciously lick your lips as he undoes his jeans and pulls them down. You stare at those wonderfully toned thighs and the purple fabric of his boxers. The time it takes him to pull them down is far too long – you're desperate to see what you've been missing out on. As soon as they're down, you know exactly what you've been missing: _a lot_. He's large – possibly the largest you've had – and has little tufts of light brown hair around it. You see the little seeds of pre-cum against the tip, and you inwardly groan. This has to happen _now_.

"Is this what you really want, Arthur?" His voice is serious.

You sober up for a second, thinking about how you could easily just say no and Eames would be fine with it, but you don't want to. You want to take this opportunity and become closer to him than you could ever possibly be.

"Yes, Eames, I want this."

He leans forward and kisses you again, softer this time. It's a kiss reserved for lovers, rather than one-night stands. You hear him unscrewing the bottle of lube, but he never stops kissing you for a second. He only pulls away when he's gently opening your legs and lifting you up slightly – two lube-soaked fingers at your entrance. He slips one in slowly, and it feels a little uncomfortable. It's been too long since you did anything like this. You feel the finger move gently in and out before another one joins it. He scissors them and you gasp, mentally begging him for more. A third and final finger is added. One scrapes against your prostate and you buck upwards, fighting off your orgasm. You want him to remember this night, and not because it ended so quickly.

"I'm ready," you mutter, suddenly nervous.

Eames slides his fingers out before rolling on the condom and pouring some lubrication onto his cock. You feel the anticipation building in your stomach. He would never go out of his way to hurt you, but you're still a little worried. Just a little.

"I'll go slow, love, I promise. Tell me if you want me to stop."

He kisses you softly on the jaw as he finally enters you for the first time. It hurts, but you expect it to. Eames kisses to distract you from the pain, and it helps – kissing Eames is addictive. It only takes you a little while to get used to it, and you push against him to make him go deeper. He starts a steady rhythm, hitting that sweet spot over and over, and causing you to make noises that you didn't realise you had the capacity to make. Every part of your body feels hypersensitive, which makes it even more mind-blowing.

You keep your eyes on each other the whole time. Eames' lips are pink and swollen, and there is sweat building up on his forehead, but he has never looked more attractive.

He changes positions and he's going faster now. He pulls all the way out before pounding back in you once more. You cry out, moan and arch your back, wanting to be even closer to him. His own grunts are like music to your ears.

The edge is nearing.

You run your hands down his back, feeling the smooth, damp skin beneath your fingertips. You dig your nails in a little and he gasps louder than ever, as you drag them downwards. He wraps a hand around your cock and it's too much for you. His name slips from your tongue, and you're sure you see white, searing stars as you climax.

"Arthur," Eames cries out as he finishes also, riding out his orgasm.

The only sounds in the room are the sounds of both of you panting. He pulls out but remains partially on top of you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You feel sweaty and you know you have some of your own semen on your stomach, but you honestly don't care; you're just content to be in his arms. Closing your eyes, you feel your body relax as you begin to fall asleep.  
"Arthur?" Eames whispers in your ear.

"Yes?" You turn your head around to face him.

"I love you."

Your eyes widen. You misheard him – it's the only reasonable explanation. He said something completely different and you pathetically mistook it for that. It would be easy to ask him what he actually said, but you don't want to know. He's looking at you expectantly and you don't know what to say, so you just kiss him deeply before turning back around and closing your eyes. Due to sheer exhaustion, you're asleep within ten minutes.

The realisation of what you've done hits you like a ten-ton truck, when you wake up four hours later. You pray that it was nothing but an amazingly realistic dream, but the feel of his arms around you and the drying semen on your stomach says it all. You can't believe it – you slept with him. It was wonderful and exquisite and every other word in the thesaurus that is under the word 'amazing', there's no denying that, but he's got what he wanted now.

You're hardly interesting, so he has no other reason to speak to you. You've effectively destroyed the friendship already, if it was ever a friendship in Eames' eyes. The bottle of lubricant catches your eye. If he hadn't gone all this way to get laid, then why did he have it on him in the first place? It's not exactly something most people would carry around with them on a daily basis. You wonder how many other people he's used it on – it looks pretty empty. Of all the people he's slept with, you doubt you even made the top ten.

The pain in your heart is back with a vengeance. The idea of losing him hurts more than you can even comprehend. You don't want to lose him; even being his friend was almost enough.

The rest of the night is spent with you trying to sleep and failing miserably.

A/N: I almost never write smut, so I hope it wasn't that bad. It was certainly an interesting task to write the smut in second person, and I had the wonderful mental image of Eames kissing me whilst I wrote it, so it was worth it :3

As always, any criticism is perfectly fine with me and any reviews would be appreciated.


	4. Part 4: A Realisation

Warnings: Slash, smut and a rather terrible attempt at making sure Arthur comes across as American (I'm British – that is my excuse and I am sticking to it).

Disclaimer: Inception does not belong to me, and I am not making any profit from this.

Rating: M for language and scenes of a sexual nature.

Beta: TresMaxwell, who is like my guardian angel of Americanisms. She's also an amazing writer. I bow down to her awesomeness.

A/N: Gah, I'm so sorry. There's been a family crisis and so I haven't been able to go on my computer for days. It's been one hell of a week. It's over now, though. Here's the next chapter. Enjoy!

**Part 4: A Realisation**

At 8am, you give up trying to sleep and decide to shower instead. You probably smell disgusting, and that is not something you can tolerate. The time you spend in the shower is quick – just long enough for you to feel clean and not quite long enough for you to think. Thinking is all you've done all night. Even when completely exhausted, your brain wouldn't turn off. The insomnia has taken its toll, and you feel like you might collapse at any moment.

Mercifully, Eames is still fast asleep when you step out of the bathroom. You change quickly into a full suit – the neatness contradicts nicely with your chaotic mind. Suits have always been your comfort zone. They make you feel like you're in complete control at all times, and they help you slip on your mask of indifference and professionalism. No one would hire you if they saw the real you, of course. The suits, in their own strange way, keep you grounded, and that's exactly what you need right now.

Eames wakes up a little over an hour later. He looks at the empty bed and then at you sitting on the chair at the table.

"Why didn't you wake me up, darling?" he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"I thought you needed your rest." You worry that he sees past your obvious lie, but he merely shrugs and gets out of bed.

"I'm just going for a shower," he explains. On his way to the bathroom, he stops right in front of you. He's so close that you can feel his breath against your cheek. You wonder what he's going to do. As much as you want him to, you hope he doesn't kiss you; it would break your resolve immediately. He doesn't kiss you, but he does lift his hand to your face, stroking your cheek gently with his thumb once before turning away.

Without a word, you hear the bathroom door close and lock shut. You let out the breath you didn't even know you were holding and sigh. Unable to stay in this room any longer, you head downstairs and order some breakfast. Instead of going back upstairs, you stand and wait for it whilst chatting with Diane about anything and everything.

"Are you going home today then, sweetheart?" She asks while typing something on the computer. It's a basic model; nothing too technological.

"Yes, I'm getting a flight later today."

"Is your mystery man going back with you?" She's stopped typing now and is staring right at you.

"He is, but...it's not like that."

"Why ever not, dear? You're obviously crazy about him."

"It's a little...complicated, I guess. He's not really the relationship type, so it's hard to know what he wants."

"Can you not ask him?"

"I could, but it might be a little awkward and..."

"You don't want to get your heart broken? That's fair enough, but you'll never know if you don't ask."

At that moment, Jason walks in carrying your tray of food. You offer to take it off him, and he practically shoves it into your hands before walking away.

"Good luck!" Diane calls to you as you head back upstairs. You need all the luck you can get.

When you head back into the room, Eames is out of the shower and dressed.

"Is one of those for me? Excellent – I'm famished." He tries to take the tray off you, but you bat his hands away and place it down on the table yourself. The meal itself is a little awkward, to say the least. Once again, you pick at your toast, feeling nauseous. Even the coffee holds little comfort. The inevitable conversation about last night is bound to come up, but you don't want it to. You'd rather do anything in the world than hear him say it meant nothing.

"So, what time are we leaving today then?" Eames inquires.

"Twelve, so in about two hours." You go back to mindlessly staring at the now-cold toast.

"Arthur, listen, about last night..."

Your stomach drops. You've heard him say this countless times to people down the phone: he always says "Listen, about last night. It was fun, but let's just leave it at that, okay?" Your worst nightmare has come true – it meant absolutely nothing to him.

Your mouth works on automatic mode; "There's nothing to talk about, Eames. We both got what we wanted, didn't we? So there's nothing else to say." It came out unnecessarily harsh, but you hardly register it. Nothing feels quite right. Like you're in a dream. You grip your totem tightly, but nothing shakes the feeling of emptiness deep inside you.

"But, Arthur..." He's almost pleading with you now.

"Just leave it!" you exclaim, standing up and storming out the room. You don't stop moving until you're outside.

Leaning against the wall outside, you groan in frustration. The past twelve hours have been a complete disaster, and there's nothing you can do to fix it. This isn't a dream – you can't just fire a bullet into your brain and restart everything. There is no redo button on this one. You fucked up. The journey to the airport and then the plane trip back is going to be torture. Once you part ways in LA, will you ever see him again? It's doubtful. Your heart breaks just that little bit more at the thought.

You head back up to your room half an hour later. Eames is reading the paper and it feels like things are back to normal for a second, but you realise he's not even acknowledging your presence. There's also a distinct frown on his face that certainly wasn't there yesterday. Feeling guiltier than ever, you pull your laptop out, knowing full well that you won't get any work done.

You're right – you don't.

The journey in the car – you're driving because Eames, apparently, can't – is filled with silence. The air is saturated with an awkward tension. You try and think of a topic, but your mind is blank. Instead, you dwell on your own misery. It's impossible to know how Eames is feeling right now because he hasn't looked over in your direction for over ten minutes; he seems to just be staring outside. You wish he would look at you – to acknowledge your existence in some way. Instead, he acts as though you don't exist. You contemplate shouting at him to get him to turn around and actually _goddamn look at you_, but that won't help anything.

You thought that rejecting Eames before he had the chance to reject you would help, but it hasn't. Your heart is still broken, and nothing will take the pain away.

"The sign says turn at the next right," Eames directs. His voice sounds detached.

That's the only thing he says to you for the whole trip, even when you manage to return the car to the 'Meigh Car Park' without hitting something or someone. If last night hadn't happened, you wonder what he would have said. Would he have patted you on the back or jokingly said he was surprised you made it in one piece? You will never know.

Instead, that frown from earlier on is back. Eames doesn't look upset, but he's always been a good actor. That frown is the closest you're going to get to knowing how he feels about this situation. A sigh escapes you and you continue your journey to the airport.

Unsurprisingly, the airport is busy. There are people running around in all different directions, and the employees look exhausted and irritable The airport itself is modern-looking but nothing special; it looks like every other airport you've been to. You find the place to check in easily enough, and you head to the Business Class lounge to wait for the flight.

Even out of the small car, the awkward atmosphere is still present. You can feel it all around you – consuming you. You look over at Eames. At first glance, he looks bored, but then you notice the slight tension in his back and his hand reaching into his pocket every five minutes to grasp onto his totem.

"I quite like airports," Eames says out of nowhere. It actually makes you jump because you didn't expect him to say anything else to you.

"Why is that?" you ask wearily.

"Because whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate. Love is actually all around."

"Wait...isn't that from a movie?"

He laughs, and it's refreshing to hear. "Yes, it is. Love Actually, to be precise. The sentiment is still the same, though."

"I didn't know you were into romantic comedies, Eames."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, dar-Arthur." That slip up is a momentary hiccup, but then he starts recommending a whole list of movies to you. You're not much of a movie fan, so most of them are ones you've never heard of.

"You have to watch Fight Club, even if it's just for Brad Pitt!" and "Honestly, I cry every time at Gladiator" are the kind of comments he makes, and you find them incredibly amusing.

"I prefer reading books," you state.

"Now that doesn't surprise me at all. I've watched a film based on Wuthering Heights, if that counts?"

Finally, something you've heard of. "I've read the book of Wuthering Heights."

"Is it true that Cathy is even more annoying in the book? I didn't think that would be bloody possible!"

"It's true, yes. She's incredibly annoying in the book."

You're so engrossed in your conversation, which quickly goes onto music and then all the video games Eames has ever played, that you're shocked when it's almost time for you to board the plane.

There are only two things you hate about planes: the take off and the landing. Even though you've been on countless planes, they still make you feel uncomfortable. You don't scream and cry like you've seen some people do, but your body does stiffen and you have to control your breathing. Once it's up in the air, you're perfectly fine – it's just getting to that point that you struggle with. So when you're sitting down, with Eames by your side, and the pilot and crew are making the final preparations before takeoff, you can feel yourself begin to panic. Just relax, you tell yourself. Everything will be okay. It'll be over soon.

"Nervous flyer?" Eames asks gently.

"Not really. It's just not my favourite thing."

He laughs, but it isn't malicious-sounding; it's more fond than anything. "You're welcome to hold my hand if you need to," he offers.

"Thanks, but I think I'll be okay." You're a lot happier now you're talking again, but things are hardly back to normal between the two of you. There is still a little tension in the air, and Eames isn't quite back to his usual cheerful self – there's still a slight crease in his brow, despite the smile on his face. Holding his hand might make things even worse. It's still a tempting thought, but it's definitely best if you don't.

You grip the armrests so tightly as it takes off, that your knuckles turn white. Eames keeps looking at you with concern, but he says nothing, which you're grateful for. Soon enough, the seatbelt light turns off and you begin to calm down.

"Shall we watch a film? Maybe they have Love Actually on here somewhere..." Sure enough, he actually manages to find it. Grinning like a child in a candy store, he plugs both of your sets of earphones into his screen. You place your headphones into your ears and start watching, but it isn't long before you can't concentrate anymore. After having almost no sleep last night and the emotionally exhausting day, you end up closing your eyes and falling fast asleep.

You're not entirely sure how long you've been asleep, but you wake up to find yourself leaning against Eames' shoulder. It's incredibly comfortable and you're tired enough to be able to fall back to sleep, but it doesn't feel right to use him as a kind of human cushion after the way you treated him earlier. You pull away with a quiet "sorry".

"Don't worry about it – I don't mind. You missed the film though, which is a shame. I'll have to force you into watching it another time."

You don't register his words until a full two minutes later. Does that mean he plans to actually speak to you again once you part ways? You hope so. Either way, you're certainly not going to ask him. The conversation changes to something else, but the idea remains in the back of your mind.

It's just after 9pm when the plane lands down in LA. It was a long flight, but it wasn't boring with Eames there to keep you company. He had started a rather odd running commentary of all the other passengers, which had you laughing until your stomach hurt. No, it was definitely not boring. As you're collecting your luggage, you think back to watching Dom as he was finally allowed back into the country. You smile and consider phoning him tomorrow to see how he's doing.

"Ah, look who's here," Eames says.

You spin around to see Ariadne waving madly at you both near the entrance.

"I told her we were coming back tonight, but I didn't think she'd actually come and meet us," he explains as you make your way over to her. She throws her arms around you in a tight hug. You pat her awkwardly on the back until she lets go. After hugging Eames, she takes a step back and looks at you; "Did you both have a nice flight?" she asks, smiling.

"Oh, yes. It was perfectly acceptable, my dear Ariadne," Eames answers before you have the chance to. "You didn't need to come and see us, you know."  
"I know, but I wanted to and, besides, I'm here to offer you a place to sleep. What do you say, Arthur?"

You think about it for a few minutes. You have your own apartment that's only forty-five minutes away at the most, but it's never felt like home for you, and you're too exhausted to consider trying to get there.

"Sure, as long as it's no trouble for you."

"It isn't, don't worry. What about you, Eames?"

"I think I'll pass, my dear. I have a few things I need to deal with, and then I'll be off again. Thank you for the offer, though – it's much appreciated."

"Are you sure? It's really no trouble..."

You contemplate what Eames needs to sort out, and if whether or not the reason he's passed up Ariadne is because of you. The two of you got along well on the plane, but that doesn't mean the issue is resolved.

You realise that you've completely zoned out from their conversation and that Eames is standing in front of you with his arms out. You step forward and he wraps them around you, pulling you close. You forget everything for a little while.

"See you soon, darling," he whispers. His mouth tickles your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

"I hope so," you murmur. The hug lasts longer than completely necessary, and you miss his warmth as soon as he pulls away. As you walk out with Ariadne, you give him one last look. Eames looked depressed, you realise as you turn back around and follow Ariadne through the crowd. You ignore the urge to look back – you don't want to see too desperate, do you?

You can tell that Ariadne is dying to ask you something, but is waiting for the right time. She keeps it up right until you reach her small apartment, which she bought for when she's not in college back in Paris.

"Just come out with it, Ariadne," you snap, sighing. You're feeling irritable and just want the inevitable lecture over and done with.

"Come and sit down, and let's talk." She ignores your rudeness completely.

You place yourself on the edge of the sofa, unable to relax enough to get comfortable.

"Would you like some tea?" She offers, but you decline. She sits on the chair opposite and opens her mouth, before closing it again.

"Will you please just say what you want to say?" You groan. You feel yet _another_ headache coming on; they're the bane of your life.

"_Fine_. I want to know what happened between you and Eames, and before you deny it, I know something did happen."

You explain the whole story to her – every pointless detail. You even explain how you're just another conquest to Eames and nothing more. She says nothing for a few minutes.

"Oh, Arthur..." Her condescending tone is not appreciated. "For someone who is so clever, you really can be so...so thick sometimes."

You're shocked. You don't even know what to say.

"You don't even realise what you've done wrong, do you? Arthur, have you ever considered the possibility that the only reason Eames hasn't settled down is because the only person he wants is _you_?"

She's lying to you, or she's confused. He could have anyone in the world – why would he choose you?

"Yeah, right." You keep your tone neutral, but you know your body is shaking, and Ariadne knows it too.

"It is true, Arthur. He loves you – I don't know how he could be more obvious. I worked it out myself, as did everyone else, but you're just blind to it. The saddest part of all is that you love him back, and I know you do, you just won't admit it."

On the inside, you're borderline hysterical. You refuse to admit this to Ariadne. With difficultly, you force the words out as calmly as possible, but you can hear yourself becoming louder and louder with every word;

"I'm not stupid, Ariadne, so I'm pretty sure I'd know if someone loved me. It's always just been harmless flirting with him; he was just making it a personal challenge to...to fuck me!"

"If you honestly think that badly of him, then how can you possibly love him? Deep down, you know he's not like that, and he travelled thousands of miles to make sure you were okay. How much more obvious could he be?"

"When did he travel thousands of miles?"

"Yesterday, of course."  
"He was already in England, he told me so. That would make him a hundred miles away from me, at the most."

"Oh, Eames, why did you lie?" She lets out a big sigh before turning back to you. "He lied to you, Arthur. He was in LA – I'd know because he called me as soon as he'd finished talking to you. I got in touch with Saito, who managed to get him a private jet within the hour. He was travelling all night to get to you. That's real love."

Her words sink in slowly. Eames had travelled all the way from LA to get to you, and you treated him like shit. It all made sense now. The way he was acting, the way he was desperate to get to know you, the way he was treating you like a lover instead of just a fling. It all clicked into place. You hadn't misheard him last night at all. He had confessed to loving you, but you threw it back in his face. A wave of guilt and nausea crashes into your stomach.  
"Oh, god...what have I done?" You mutter. "I've been such an idiot, haven't I? I've l-loved him all this time and I never thought for a second he might have felt the same..."

Ariadne puts her arm around you; you hadn't even heard her walk towards you.

"You made a mistake, but you can set this right," she reassures.

"How? He'll never want to speak to me again."

"You know that's not true. Give him a few days, then go and see him. I'll find out where he's staying, although I have a feeling I know where he's headed."

Mombasa. She doesn't have to say it for you to know where she means.

"Why are you helping me?"

"I shouldn't after what you did, but you can fix it. Eames and I have become good friends, and I'd like to think you and I are too, and I hate to see you both hurting like this. Now, go to bed – you look exhausted."

She shows you the spare room, which is plain but filled with furniture that suits Ariadne perfectly.

"Goodnight, Arthur. Sleep well." She sends you a reassuring smile before she shuts the door behind her and leaves you to your thoughts.

You push your suitcase under the bed and climb on top of it. You feel more alone than ever. Nothing makes sense any more. Nothing is in your control. Everything feels so wrong – so fucked up that you don't even know what to think. You honestly feel as though you're going insane. There are so many thoughts buzzing around at once that it's impossible to hear one over the others.

"He loves me," you whisper to no one. "He loves me and I hurt him."

You pray that he's not feeling anywhere near as shitty as you do right now.

A/N: Angsty chapter is angsty. I'm far too cruel to Arthur. Apologies again for the epic delay in between chapters. The last part is tiny (only 2000 words, I think), so it hopefully won't take me too long to edit and upload.

As always, constructive criticism is always good, and reviews are always loved and appreciated.


	5. Part 5: The End or the Beginning?

Warnings: Slash, smut and a rather terrible attempt at making sure Arthur comes across as American (I'm British – that is my excuse and I am sticking to it).

Disclaimer: I do not have the imagination to have come up with Inception. If Eames is right, that means I also wouldn't be able to perform Inception, but that's neither here nor there. I'm making no profit from this either – I was poor student before I wrote this, and will continue to be afterwards.

Rating: M for language and scenes of a sexual nature.

Beta: TresMaxwell, who is awesome. If you like Hellboy, go read her stuff :3

A/N: The final part, and the shortest of them all. I'm so sorry for the delay. As a bet, I went a week without yaoi (including no reading, writing or watching), so I couldn't edit this and post it. It was hard work, but I got through the week xD

**Part 5: The End or the Beginning?**

You're on a plane. Eames is in Mombasa, so that's where you're headed. The plane is filled with people. They are happy couples and businessmen mostly. You're towards the back in your own bubble. For once, you don't mind being in the bubble; it's comforting.

You're so engrossed in your own little world, everything seems muffled. You barely notice when the air hostess asks you if you want a drink; her voice sounds like static. The seconds, minutes and hours all blur into one. Three nights of no sleep is taking its toll. You don't even have the energy to worry about seeing him again – or to feel anything, for that matter – there's just enough there to keep your body conscious.

Taking a piece of paper out of your pocket, you stare at the address written in Ariadne's handwriting. It's where Eames is currently staying, according to her contacts – and by hers, she means Dom's. The edges of the paper are a little torn from the journey, but you can still see the address, and that's all that matters.

The connection flight is a blur. All you remember is staring at a clock that was going so slow that you question if it's even working at all. Then you're back on another plane and, mercifully, you get a little bit of sleep. It's only a few hours, but it makes the world a little less muffled. You roll your die a few times, and this is definitely reality. This is _your_ reality.

You're finally in Mombasa. The first thing you notice is the stifling temperature. You can see the heat waves coming off the streets. It's making you sweat and you hate it. The nerves have kicked in now; they kicked in an hour before the plane landed here. Your heart is beating like it's attempting to break your ribs and jump straight out of your chest, and you wouldn't blame it – you feel like running far away too. But you stand your ground. Ariadne would find you and kill you if you ran, and you have no desire to face her wrath.

"_Arthur, good luck! If you hurt him, I __**can**__ kill you and make it look like an accident." _Knowing her, she wasn't joking either.

You think of Eames, and how you're close to where he's staying now. You wonder if he's forgiven you yet, but you doubt it – you haven't even forgiven yourself. He'll laugh in your face, or hit you; you haven't decided which sounds the most likely yet. There's a small, nagging part of your mind that's telling you that Eames isn't like that, and you know it, but you're so afraid and irrational now that it makes perfect sense.

Sighing once more, you hail a cab and read out the address on the piece of paper. He doesn't understand you and you don't understand him, but he understands where you need to go, so it doesn't matter. It doesn't surprise you at all that the journey is in silence. It's still too hot.

You're outside his door now. You've checked the piece of paper and the name of the hotel enough to prove this is his hotel room. This is it. This is the moment you've been waiting for since you first fell for him. Everything all comes down to this moment. You're not sure what you'll do if he rejects you – you don't even want to think about it. Probably throw yourself at work until the pain stops. The fear feels all too real. You don't recall ever being so terrified before. Not even in the military, but you were trained for that. No amount of life experience has trained you for this.

Knees weak, you finally knock on the door. When there is no answer, you try again. You're starting to wonder if you've somehow made a mistake, when the door opens. Eames is standing right in front of you. His hair is sticking up and he's rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans that have obviously just been thrown on.

"A-Arthur, is that you?" Eames sounds surprised, but he's bound to. No one told him you were coming, after all.

"Yeah. May I come in?" Your voice is surprisingly calm. You feel as though you might faint at any second, and the heat certainly isn't helping this fact, but you ignore it. Only this matters.

He steps out of the way to let you through. The hotel room is small, dingy and smells of rust. It's even hotter in here, and you regret all the more wearing a suit.

"Have a seat. Would you like some tea?" he asks. It's a formality, but you accept anyway. The British are known for drinking tea in times of stress, so you decide to put it to the test. As Eames walks away into what you assume is the kitchen area, you sit down on a faded sofa and have a look around. The wallpaper is stained and peeling, and the floor isn't much better. There is a metal double bed on the opposite side of the room, with all the bed sheets messy and tangled up. There are various articles of clothing dotted around and some French windows that lead onto a balcony. There is nothing left to look at, so you make patterns in the stains on the walls – anything to stop you thinking about the conversation you're about to have.

Eames returns a few minutes later with two cups of tea. He hands one over to you, and your fingers touch for half a second, but it's enough to make your heart race and for your stomach to tie itself in a double knot. He sits on the chair opposite and looks at you with mild curiosity. You try and open your mouth to speak, but your voice is completely failing you, so you drink your tea and look anywhere but at the man in front of you. A wave of nausea hits you as soon as the tea reaches your stomach, so you place it down on the dusty coffee table.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Eames finally says "As much as I'm happy to see you, what are you doing here exactly? If it's work, a phone call would have been a lot less effort." There is no smile on his face and he sounds almost...exasperated? You're starting to regret coming here.

"E-Eames, listen, I'm here to apologise." You know you have to say this – it's now or never.

_Just do it, for fuck sake_.

"What for?"

"I've been an idiot and I hurt you and I'm sorry." You don't even stop for breath as the sentence tumbles out of your mouth.

"Slow down, darling. I have no idea what you're talking about. Can you start again?"

Oh god. You want to run far away. Maybe you could hide somewhere where Ariadne can't find you, like Australia. Yeah, Australia might work...

You scold yourself – you're being a coward. This is just one conversation; it'll be over in five minutes. You need to do this.

"Okay, I'll start from the beginning, but you have to promise not to say anything until I'm finished."  
"Scout's honour."

You take a deep breath. "I'm in love with you, Eames – I have been for a long time, possibly since I first met you. I never did anything about it because I thought your flirting wasn't genuine, that you were just joking and trying to get under my skin. Then I saw you have one one-night stand after another, and I thought that was all you were after. I assumed you'd ignore me once you'd got what you wanted." The words are coming out on their own accord now; you're not even thinking about them.

"So, when we slept together, I was worried that that was it, and I got into my head that you never intended to be my friend in the first place – that you just wanted to get me into bed and that's it – so I panicked and I hurt you. I'm sorry..." You choke out the last part. Guilt is consuming you. You don't deserve his forgiveness. His eyes are on you, but you can't bear to look at him.

"Arthur, look at me." His voice is almost like a command.

You automatically look up. His eyes are filled with so much sadness and pain that it kills you inside to see, but you can't turn away. You're paralysed.

"Is that honestly what you thought of me? That I would just fuck you once and throw you to the gutter?"

"No, I mean...yes, but I didn't truly think it. I just couldn't accept that you'd want anything more."

It's his turn to sigh. The crease in his brow that he couldn't get rid of on the journey back to the US is back. "I understand, I think, but I only ever slept with those people because I couldn't have you. I love you too, Arthur, more than I can say, but what I don't get is that even when I confessed that I loved you, you still thought it was just a one-night thing."  
"I thought I'd misheard you," you admit. "I only realised I'd made a mistake when Ariadne told me. I did tell you that I'm not great at relationships..."

He laughs and it sounds wonderful because it seems genuine. You feel a little bit of hope deep within your chest.

"You're such a plonker, darling, but I love you for it."

"Have you forgiven me then?" You ask, feeling unsure.

"I'm well on the way to it, darling. I know how much feelings can fuck up your mind."

He's walking towards you now. You find yourself standing up also. His arms are around you, and it feels so perfect that it can't possibly be real. There's an urge to check your die, but you ignore it.

A giant weight has been lifted off your shoulders and, for the first time in days, you feel content. You take in that wonderful scent once more and it feels so familiar – so _safe_.

Eames could have been yours years ago, if you had just taken a leap of faith. He leans forwards and kisses you. It's chaste but it's just what you need; you don't need anything more intimate as proof that he loves you.

"I need to call Ariadne soon," you realise. "She might think I've ran away, and she'll hunt me down and kill me."

Eames chuckles and says, "We'll ring her later, pet. I don't know about you, but I'm knackered."

"So am I."

"Shall we sleep for a bit then? We can talk more later."

"Sounds like a plan to me," you say with a small smile.

You strip down to just your boxers, and Eames does the same. He pulls you gently onto the bed and places a thin blanket over you both. You're lying on his naked chest, absentmindedly playing with the tattoo inked across it. It's still stiflingly hot, but for once you don't mind.

"Are we together now then?" Eames asks.

"I'd say so, yeah," you answer. "Just remember that I wear the pants in this relationship."  
He laughs. "Whatever you say, love."

You watch as he closes his eyes and gently falls asleep. He looks beautiful, and he's yours. You shut your own eyes and smile happily to yourself.

You have no idea where the future lies and what will happen between you two. The relationship could last a month or the rest of your lives. You have almost no control, but you don't mind. Whatever happens, you'll give it your best shot to make this work. Maybe losing a little control can be a good thing? You're starting to believe it can be.

You'll be okay.

_We'll be okay..._

A/N: I'm really sorry if it seems like an abrupt end. I honestly cannot think of a way to expand it, and I don't want to just add stuff for the sake of it. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed or favourited this story. You've had me get back some of my confidence in writing. Until next, don't forget to dream a little bigger :D


End file.
